


The Mayor's Gun

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Juno is working for Ramses, M/M, Peter comes back to stop him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: Ramses is bringing about a new world order, and Juno is committed to helping his cause-- until Peter comes back to stop him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Okay so along the lines of your twist of fate where Juno ends up a villain, could we see Peter coming back to Mars to stop this villain from almost recreating Brahma, and coming face-to-face with a manipulated Juno? I feel like I'm signing myself up for major angst by asking but... I had to.

It’s a rooftop chase. That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it?

Just the two of them, criminal and private eye, bounding over the spaces between back alleys, gambling their lives on every leap. 

The other man’s legs are longer than Juno’s; by all rights he should be a distant speck on the skyline, but he keeps zigzagging and ducking behind cover. That’s all that’s saving him: if he moved in a straight line for longer than half a breath, Juno would already have put a laser through him.

They’ve been running since O’Flaherty’s office, when the thief triggered an alarm that sent alerts right into Juno’s head. He was digging through the old man’s paperwork– the latest in a spree of ever-more-desperate mobsters trying to stop the mayor-to-be before he put a stop to them for good. 

They weren’t going to make it, and neither will this one.

But Juno is losing steam, and the thief shows no signs of stopping. If he doesn’t end this now, the thief is going to get away, along with whatever he’d deemed important enough to steal. 

So Juno pulls his blaster, and he aims. Not at the thief’s weaving body.

At his legs.

A single shot, and the thief goes down hard, vanishing behind a rooftop air conditioning unit. Juno keeps running.

The thief is gone by the time Juno reaches the roof, but it isn’t hard to find him: all he has to do is follow the blood. It leads through a broken window, down a flight of steps and into an apartment building. 

The blood stops at one door to his left. Juno reaches for the blood-smeared doorknob– then stops.

No. This man was clever enough to get into O’Flaherty’s office. He’s not going to make such an obvious mistake. 

He continues down the hall, crouching beside each of the doors in turn. They show nothing, and then– there. The slightly raised seam over a door’s control panel. The thief would have had to open it to hack the door, and then then slammed it shut in a hurry. 

He knocks once. “Anybody home in there?”

The only reply is the scrape of a window resisting against its frame. The thief’s trying to make a break for it.

Juno shoots through the lock and kicks it open. Three quick strides take him across the darkened apartment, to where a thin figure is suspended half outside an open window. The light from the street is so bright it casts the thief into silhouette, but it won’t make him any harder to hit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Juno asks. 

The thief’s hands close on the window frame, slowly pulling himself back in. “I’m not going anywhere, Detective. Just engaging in one of the local customs.” 

Juno’s hand falters on his blaster– because he knows that voice. 

He _knows_ that voice. 

Peter Nureyev stands tall before him, or as tall as he can without putting weight on wounded leg. The wound is hastily wrapped with a washcloth and duct tape, but it’s already bled through.

“If you’re going to kill me, Juno, then at the very least you can look me in the eye while you do it. I think I’ve earned that much.”

Goddammit. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Juno says quietly. “But if you don’t get to a hospital soon, that leg wound is going to do it for me.”

“I noticed. Thank you for that,” he says flatly. It’s hard to read his face through all the scans and readouts superimposed on him through the bionic eye. The image is so convoluted that he can barely recognize him at all. He dims the display to nothing; he’d rather look at Nureyev through his old eye, anyway.

“I didn’t do it on purpose.” 

“Certainly not,” Nureyev says coolly. “I’m sure you make shots like that accidentally all the time. Tell me, what was your intention, then?”

“I didn’t know it was you, okay?” Juno steps forward. “Now come on, let’s get you to–”

He gets all of three steps before Nureyev draws a knife. “Don’t come any closer, Juno.” 

“Dammit, Nureyev–” 

“I mean it. Not another step.” 

Nureyev’s losing blood too fast for this bullshit. If Juno could, he’d stun the guy and carry him downstairs to a waiting cab, but this gun doesn’t have a stun setting.

_”A real beauty, isn’t she?” O’Flaherty said. “A perfect match for that eye of yours. The most accurate handgun in the galaxy, practically a sniper rifle without all the bulk. There’s only one drawback, but I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you.”_

“Okay, I’m staying put,” Juno says. “Just hand over what you took, and I’ll walk away and call an ambulance.”

Nureyev looks like he’s going to be sick. “Give it back? So you can go right back to–” He staggers, but catches himself against the window. His leg leaves behind a smear of blood where it brushes the floor. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Now come on, you need–” Juno takes another step forward, but has to leap out of the way to avoid Nureyev’s knife. “Dammit, I’m trying to help.”

“Help who?” Nureyev is sinking. “Your new friend?” 

He swipes at Juno again, but his grip is so weak that the knife is knocked out of his hand with ease. 

“Rita, I need a ride,” he says into his comms. “And I need it yesterday.” 

When Juno gathers Peter into his arms, he can only cling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> belanekra asked:
> 
> Please please please continue the one where Juno's working for Ramses and ends up shooting Peter. It was so good! I need to know what happens. What did Peter steal? What does he know about Ramses that Juno clearly doesn't? How did Juno end up at the point where carrying a gun that doesn't even have a stun function is *not a problem* for him? And what is Peter thinking about all this? He pulled a knife on Juno!

Nureyev is still pretty heavily sedated by the time he’s cleared to leave the hospital. There’s not much more that the doctors can do for him– the tissue scaffolding is already in place in his leg, and now it’s just a matter of waiting until the new cellular growth fills in what used to be there. All this fancy medical talk goes a bit over my head, really. It used to be this kind of thing was something out of a fantasy– best case scenario, Nureyev would be spending the rest of his life walking with a limp. But the insurance plan Ramses has me on means Nureyev will be on his feet in a month with nothing but a bit of discoloration to show for his trouble.

There’s a catch, though– even Ramses’ insurance doesn’t cover every random schmuck I carry in off the street. To get them to treat Nureyev, I had to give them a name. 

Specifically, _my_ name. 

Which is why I’m busy signing the release forms for Duke Steel, my… er… husband.

Yeah.

So that’s why I leave the hospital with a packet of outpatient instructions, a collapsible wheelchair, and a heavily sedated master thief. 

He’s too delirious to tell me where he’s staying, so I… um… bring him back to my place. And I set him up in my bed, because it’s either that or the couch, and I don’t think that leg of his is going to recover very well if it’s being squeezed between cushions and an armrest.

“Ths’s… ths’s your room,” Nureyev slurs when I wheel him up to the bed. He giggles oddly. “Think ‘m too drunk for that, Juno.” 

“You’re drugged, not drunk,” I tell him, pulling back the sheets. “You’re only here to get some rest. Come here.” I’ve done it a few times, but it’s still a bit awkward to lift him out of the chair and onto the bed. He wraps his arms around my neck and shifts his weight to help me hold him.

I’m painfully aware of the trust he’s putting in me right now. I’m even more aware that he wouldn’t if he was even remotely sober.

* * *

I’m expecting the call, but that doesn’t mean I’m any happier about it when it comes.

“I take it congratulations are in order for the happy couple?” Ramses asks the moment I pick up. There’s no introduction. There never is.

“What? Didn’t your research on me tell you I was married?”

“Either your spouse has had quite a lot of work done in the last few years, or that isn’t the man you married. I don’t take kindly to insurance fraud, Juno. Even less so to fraternizing with people who tried to rob me.” 

I scrub a hand down my face. “I’ve worked with him before. He’s more useful working with us than against us.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is _consulting criminal_.” He doesn’t need to remind me how he feels about those.

“What do you want me to do, arrest him? He’s too slippery for the HCPD– they learned that the hard way.”

“I want you to take care of it.” 

“And I am. He’s going to be less of a hassle if I can convince him to leave town than if he decides to stick around.”

“Take care of it, Juno,” he repeats. “And do it quickly. I don’t have time for distractions.”

The call ends, and I’m left staring at my comms. 

Convince Nureyev to leave Hyperion City. Easy enough: judging by the last time he was lucid, I’m halfway there already.

* * *

The doctors said the painkillers will wear off after four hours or so. Nureyev’s brow starts creasing a little after three and a half. 

I slip an arm under his neck and shoulders and ease him upright. The next dose is in my other hand, and I’m about to press it into his mouth when he grabs my wrist. 

“No.” His eyes open slowly, like it takes an effort to force them to move. 

“It’ll help with the pain,” I say softly. 

“I said no.” 

I want to fight him on this, but I back off. “Well, they’re here if you want them.” I put them down on his bedside table, but he doesn’t glance at the pills. His eyes never leave mine. “Are you… are you hungry or something?” 

He says nothing. 

“Look, I get it, okay? I’m probably the last person you want to talk to right now. And you don’t have to. Give it a few weeks and your leg will be fine. Just let me drive you to the spaceport, and then you can get on the first ship out of here and you never have to see me again.“

“Do you really think I’m just going to leave and let you destroy this city?” 

Jeez, those drugs must still be doing a number on him. “Nureyev, I’m not destroying anything. Hell, I’m trying to help _save_ this goddamn place.” I hesitate. “Or, at least I’m trying to put it in the hands of someone who can.” 

I must finally have gotten through to him, because some of the hardness leaves his eyes. What takes its place feels too much like pity. “Is that really what you think you’re doing?”

“Ramses is going to clean up the HCPD. He’s going to get rid of the Fortezza. He’s going to take Hyperion away from the Triad and the Kanagawas and all those bastards.”

Nureyev looks like he’s going to be sick. “Did you ever ask him how he planned to do it?”

“How does any politician do anything around here?” I ask. “With– with legislation and fundraisers and–”

“And the best sharpshooter Mars has produced since the end of the War.” 

“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m his bodyguard, not–” No. No, I’m not going to argue with him about that. I won’t waste time talking myself into corners about the people I’ve killed. “The guy builds fucking soup kitchens by the gross, Nureyev. He’s a good man– probably the last good man left in this goddamn city.”

“Not everyone who feeds orphans is a good man, Juno,” he says wearily. 

I want so badly to make him understand, but I force myself to stop pushing. He’s only been conscious for a few minutes and already he looks exhausted. 

“Listen, we don’t have to talk about this right now,” I tell him. “You need to rest.” 

His eyes slide shut and he goes still. I’m almost sure he’s fallen asleep when he speaks again.

“The files I took,” he says, weighing each word carefully. “Did you give them back to him?”

“Nureyev, you need to–”

_“Answer the question, Juno.”_

“Of course I did.”

“Did you look at them?”

I hesitate. I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I didn’t. “They were too heavily encrypted for me to make anything of them.” 

He sighs. “Then maybe there’s some hope for you yet.” 

“Why?” I ask. “What were they? Blackmail material?”

Nureyev chokes out a bitter laugh. “He keeps you as his private assassin, and you think he can be blackmailed?” 

“I’m not–”

He doesn’t let me finish. “They were schematics. The blueprints for his grand plan to _save_ Hyperion city.” He spits out the word like it’s battery acid. “Tell me, Juno. Have you ever heard of the Guardian Angel System?”


	3. Chapter 3

The Guardian Angel System.

Yeah, I know about it– I saw it in Nureyev’s head, all those years ago. I felt the fear he grew up with, narrowly escaping the lasers of the law, watching as protesters were mowed down by the gross.

He tells me about it, anyway: every statistic, every gory detail, every friend who dropped dead in front of him because they stole a few pennies’ worth of food. He’s so worked up he doesn’t even notice the pain until he stops for breath, and by then it’s enough to leave him curled up around his wounded leg. This time when I offer him the painkillers, he doesn’t refuse. He’s out cold a few minutes later, before the tear tracks on his face have had the chance to dry. I’m not sure if those tears are from physical pain or righteous fury.

I’m not sure if it matters.

I tuck the blankets up to his chin and set a full glass of water on the bedside table, and I retreat to my living room. 

* * *

I try to call O’Flaherty, but there’s no answer. That’s not unexpected– the man is in and out of so many meetings that he’s barely got time to take a piss. I don’t bother leaving a message; he’ll call me when he’s ready for me.

In the meantime I spend a whole lot of time pacing the length of my apartment. I’m buzzing with nervous energy, and the THEIA points out my elevated heart rate and cortisol levels. I need to calm down. I need to get out and go to the shooting range, blow off some steam– but the conversation I’m going to have with O’Flaherty isn’t the type that I can have in public, and I don’t want to be far away when Nureyev wakes up.

I want to pour myself a drink, but I can’t exactly afford to be wasted right now, either. 

So I pace, and I rehearse what I’m going to say, and I wait for the call to come.

It feels like a year before O’Flaherty calls me back. 

“Juno, have you taken care of it?” His voice is sharp in that way only he has– the tone that makes me want to do better, to be better, because I can’t imagine anything worse than disappointing him. 

At least, I can’t until I remember what I called him about.

“I’m dealing with a bigger problem right now,” I say instead, steeling myself.

O’Flaherty lets out a note of agitation. “What did that thief do?”

“It’s about what he took,” Juno says. “Ramses, what the hell are you doing with an Outer Rim security system?”

I want him to deny it. I want him to tell me that he apprehended it from Pilot, or from some smuggler, or something. I want him to tell me that he has everything under control.

“We’ve talked about this, Juno. Hyperion City lacks the infrastructural solutions to crime and poverty that are employed by the rest of the galaxy. For all our conflicts with the Outer Rim, they have made strides in controlling crime–”

“The Outer Rim, maybe, but not Brahma,” I snap. “Ramses, there are better ways to deal with this.”

“There aren’t many options left to us. The police can’t be trusted. Any steps we take will have to circumvent them entirely.”

I don’t like where this is going. “There are still good cops–”

“Of course there are,” Ramses says curtly. “Less than a dozen of them in all of Hyperion City, and for each of them there are a hundred more who are on the take. They can’t keep up on their own. Without help, they’ll be overwhelmed. They’re already overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, and how much worse are things going to be if the bad cops get a hold of the Guardian Angel System? New Kinshasa was a tyrant’s playground.”

“Do you really think that hasn’t occurred to me, Juno?” His tone is sharp again. “I’m being careful. The system I’m building won’t be capable of lethal force. There will be a rigorous system of checks and balances.”

“Then why have it at all?”

“Do you really have to ask me that? Juno, think about Yasmin Swift. Think about that Piranha woman. The Proctor. Think about all the times you’ve had to rush in and make a rash decision because you couldn’t afford to let them get away. Because there are a hundred thousand places for a criminal to hide in this city, and if they go to ground there’s no stopping them from killing again. It doesn’t have to be that way– not with the THEIA and its database to identify criminals and the Guardian Angel System to apprehend them. Think of all the lives that would have been saved, Juno. Think of all the lives that can still be saved.”

Each of those names drops like a lead ball into the pit of my stomach. 

How many people are dead because I wasn’t good enough to stop them the right way?

He’s not wrong. I know he’s not wrong. 

That’s what makes it so tempting.

I swallow. “The Guardian Angel isn’t the way. It’s too powerful.”

“And who told you that, I wonder? Your _husband_?” The word twists in his mouth like something half profane. 

“So what if he did?”

“What was the name he gave you? Duke?”

I feel sick. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Did he mention where he got his information? Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

“Ramses–”

“Juno, the man you’re harboring is Peter Nureyev, and he’s a criminal to the core. Twenty years ago he held an entire city hostage because he didn’t care for the Guardian Angel System. Thousands of lives were nearly destroyed on his whim– and that isn’t counting the people he murdered in the process, or the dozens of corpses he’s left in his wake since then.”

How did he know? Goddammit, how did he know? I swallow, my throat dry. “That’s not how he tells it.” I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t. “He was saving those people.”

“The ones he didn’t slaughter, you mean?” O’Flaherty asks, sardonic. “I’m sure he believes that. He’s had twenty years to convince himself, after all.”

“It’s not like that. He’s not like that. He’s–”

“He isn’t just a mass murderer, he’s a con artist. Charm is his greatest weapon, and he’s using it on you. Tell me, Juno, was he really too slippery for you? Or was it just too hard to turn him in?”

I stumble backward. The floor feels like it’s rotting away under my feet with every word he says. Because he’s not wrong.

Every single word he’s said has been the absolute truth.

“What did he tell you, Juno? That he’s in love with you?”

Is it really that obvious?

“It’s the oldest trick in the book,” he continues. “And an effective one. After all, look what he’s made you do for him.”

“He didn’t make me do anything–”

“And he’s convinced you that it’s all your own idea. That’s the second oldest trick.” 

No. No no no no no. My back is to the wall. I don’t want to hear this. I can’t hear this. Because he’s right, isn’t he? That’s the only thing that makes sense, isn’t it?

Except it isn’t. I’ve seen into Nureyev’s head. I’ve heard his thoughts. I mean, how deep into character can a guy get?

I know the answer without asking: as deep as he has to. Especially after he found out I could read his mind. He had weeks to prepare himself, to develop a persona and practice it so thoroughly that he’d internalized every lie.

He could do it. If anyone in the galaxy could pull it off, it’s Peter Nureyev.

My thoughts are interrupted by the scrape of a body against the wall. When I look up, Nureyev’s leaning heavily against the door frame. “Juno?”

“Dammit, you– you shouldn’t be walking,” I say too quickly. His wheelchair. I need to get his wheelchair. 

“I suppose now he’s violating his outpatient orders so you’ll fret over him,” Ramses drawls. “So you can sweep in and be his _hero_.”

Is… is that what’s happening right now?

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Nureyev’s expression goes from concerned to wary, almost afraid. “Juno, what is he saying to you?” 

Ramses’ voice is sharp and urgent in my ear. “Juno, you need to get away from him.”

One of them is lying to me.

Hell, maybe both of them are.

My throat is dry when I speak into the comms. “I’ll call you back.”

And then I hang up.

On the one hand: Peter Nureyev, a career criminal, a man who lies like it’s his mother tongue. 

On the other: Ramses O’Flaherty, the last good man on Mars– or so he says. Or so I want to believe.

It should be an easy choice.

“Juno,” Nureyev starts, but I walk past him.

“Let’s get you into that wheelchair before you mess up that leg of yours.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thesquidydude asked:
> 
> PLEASE DO MORE OF THE MORALLY GRAY JUNO AU.

Nureyev is barely back in his wheelchair before he starts. “Juno, what did he–”

I can’t handle this right now. “If you’re awake, we can go.” I turn away from him to grab my coat off the hook by the door. “Do you have your passport on you, or do we need to go get it?” 

Tension sharpens his tone. “My passport?” 

“You had to get back to Mars somehow, didn’t you?” I throw my coat on. “Even if you don’t have it, we can probably get Valles Vicky to smuggle you offworld. How much does that kind of job usually go for these days, do you know?” I start for the door, and then pause. “Do you want me to push your chair, or have you got it?”

But the heel of Nureyev’s uninjured leg is already digging into my floor. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yes, you are. You can’t stay here.”

“Then call me a cab and I’ll return to my hotel. I’m not leaving Mars.” 

“Fine,” I snap. “Then go to Olympus Mons, or Valles Marinaris, or the Cerberus Province. I don’t care where you go, but you need to get out.”

“I won’t stand by and let Hyperion City become another New Kinshasa.” Nureyev leans forward so much that he might just tip out of that chair, his teeth gnashing with every word. There’s more of a speech on its way, and I can’t listen to this right now. I can’t. 

So I cut to the chase.

“Nureyev, he knows your name.” 

I couldn’t have shut him up faster if I’d punched him in the stomach. I don’t think I could have hurt him any worse, either. He looks wounded. Betrayed. 

“Juno.” His voice is thin and reedy, like there’s no air left in his lungs. His mouth opens to ask a question, but he doesn’t have enough breath to form the words. He doesn’t need to; I already know what it is.

“I didn’t tell him,” I say. “I swear I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I used a fake name in the hospital. I don’t know if the security cameras picked up your face, or if Ramses had access to those feeds, or what, but I swear, I didn’t tell him. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

But it doesn’t matter, does it? 

One way or another, O’Flaherty has Nureyev’s name. And even if I didn’t give it to him directly, it’s still my fault. I can feel it in my gut, as certain as I know the weight of my blaster and the direction of the sky. 

I did this. 

Nureyev never should have given me something as precious as his name. He should have known what I would do to it.

“If I don’t get you offworld, he’ll send somebody else to do it for me. And they’ll know who you are, and they’ll be ready for you.” 

He looks me in the eyes, his gaze flicking too quickly between my natural eye and the cybernetic. 

“You’re still on his side,” Nureyev says quietly.

I don’t know what side I’m on anymore. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.” 

“I see.” I might as well have dug my thumb into the hole in his leg. His fingers are tight on the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles white. “You still don’t trust me.” 

The door is right there. I could step outside this apartment, go for a long walk, and I know he’d be gone by the time I came back. I don’t have to answer his questions.

Except that I do.

“I trust you. I do. After everything–” My voice can’t break, not now. “I owe you that much, don’t I? And that’s why I can’t–” Fuck. Hold it together, Steel. “You can’t trust me. Any road you go down with me isn’t going to end anywhere good. No matter what decision I make, it’s always going to be the wrong one. I’m a fucking dumpster fire, Nureyev, and you got burned bad enough already.”

Something hardens in Nureyev’s eyes. “Did he tell you that?” 

My shoulders sag. Why does it matter who said it when it’s true? “He didn’t have to. That’s just the way things are. That’s just the way they’ve always been.” 

For a moment he looks like he wants to argue with me, but he doesn’t. Nureyev weighs his words carefully. “Who would he send after me?”

The change in subject is so sudden that I almost lose my balance. “What?”

“You said he would send someone else if you didn’t get rid of me. You’re already his gun. Who else would he send?”

“The guy’s got deep pockets and a lot of people on his payroll.”

“Then guess. You know him better than I do.”

This is something I can do: take in the information, pick out the relevant evidence, look for clues. “Not the HCPD– half his platform is about cleaning them up, and they hate him for it. He might have enough connections to pull in Dark Matters, but my guess is he’ll go with private security.” That could mean anything from off-duty cops to mercenaries who needed a place to go after the end of the War– but a man like Ramses O’Flaherty isn’t about to skimp on expenses. “Whoever it is, they’re going to be good, and they’re not going to stop until the job is done. But that doesn’t have to happen, Nureyev. If you leave Mars, I can still talk him out of this. Please.“ 

He keeps looking at me, his eyes glinting as they shift from one eye to another, but something changes in him, like sediment settling in clouded water. I can’t name the expression in his face, but it feels uncomfortably familiar.

"Thank you for your concern, Juno, but I’ll take that risk.” He extends a hand to me, wordlessly asking for my comms. “So. Are you going to call me a taxi, or shall I do it myself?”

There’s a choice he’s asking me to make, but it has nothing to do with that comms.

It should be an easy choice. Everything about this should be so easy. I’ve done my due diligence. I’ve warned him, given him all the information I have, done everything in my power to get him safely out of harm’s way. If he chooses to throw his life away after all that, it’s on him. My hands are clean.

But it doesn’t work like that. It never has. 

“You…” My mouth is dry. There’s only really one way this can go, isn’t there? Take any other road, and I’ll spend the rest of my life hating myself for what I should have done instead. “You don’t need to go back to the hotel.” O'Flaherty will need to believe that he’s left the planet, but I can have Rita leave a convincing trail, and Nureyev has a talent for not getting caught on camera. 

It’s the wrong choice. I know that even before I’ve made it.

But this isn’t about right or wrong, it’s about what I can live with– and I can’t live with myself if I let him go out that door. 

“If you’re going to stay on Mars, then stay with me." 


End file.
